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Writer's pictureMateo Zytkoskee

The Things She Left Behind

Zytkoskee, A. (2019). The things she left behind. In E. Kraljii (Ed.), Against death: 35 essays on living. Anvil Press.




My late wife Danae left behind a pair of black Adidas tennis shoes with pink trim that continue to sit on the front porch. They’re far too big for my daughter but too small for either of Danae’s sisters. I should move them, but I don’t. Instead, I see them when I come home from work sitting next to the pumpkins the kids decorated with glitter — as if she were right inside. The sneakers get dusted by snow and still I leave them. No one comments on the lonely shoes. Perhaps they fear any words will fall short.



She left behind paperwork that continues to come to our ad- dress in her name. Mostly bills as the people who matter are aware that she’s gone. One day, I decide to call the half-dozen hospitals who want money from us — from me. The bills sit, growing like the cancer they represent, in a file cabinet covered with free stickers from sports equipment we bought together.



I’m put on hold. I’m transferred. I talk to a woman who says she cannot talk to me because I do not have power of attorney. “So,” I ask, “then I’m not liable for these bills?” “Unfortunately, you are,” she replies. “You can make a payment; I just can’t tell you the amount or any other details. I suggest you contact your wife’s insurance company directly.” So, I do. They transfer me three times, disconnect me twice, and finally, after an hour and twenty minutes, a woman says, “I understand your situation sir, but I’ll have to speak directly to your wife.” I tell her something colder than I’ve ever said in my life. “Ma’am, I hope that you get to watch your husband or whoever the fuck you love slowly die!” Before she can respond, I hurl the phone against the wall where it breaks into pieces. Instantly, I feel stupid and helpless. Rather than calming down, I scream into a pillow and then throw a tantrum worthy of a two-year-old. Afterward, I dig around the garage until I find some old, dry tobacco and sit on the back porch smoking an awful-tasting cigarette while listening to sad indie music.



She left behind her territory under the sink in the master bathroom. Really, the entire bathroom was her territory, but I’ve reclaimed a majority of the lost ground...except for under the sink. Crammed to nearly overflowing, it was too daunting a task until one day I put on loud music and got to work — and by “put on,” I mean dialled up to house-rattling levels. She has space-saving baskets overflowing with unfamiliar things. The first one I pull out has maybe twenty different nail polishes. In her last months, she became obsessed with doing her nails and anyone else’s who would let her; it was something she could do even in the hospital. I put them in a pile to give to family and friends. One sparkly, blue colour catches my eye and I set it aside for my daughter. Does nail polish spoil, I wonder. All the emery boards go in the trash; they disturb me, especially remembering the infections she got on her feet towards the end, infections that I told her weren’t gross when she cried about how disgusting her cute toes had become. Another basket contains hospital masks; these remind me of death. Into the trash they go. I discover a box filled with small vials of essential oils for aroma therapy, vials that proclaim healing potential for just about every ailment. A memory flashes through my mind of a mocking comment I’d made to her about “stupid hippie products.” Why did I feel the need to put down her excitement? Fuck. I keep sorting and find nail clippers, an eyelash curler, two hair driers, boxes of unused contact lenses, laxatives, an old toiletry kit from Emirates airlines, a Beanie Baby seal, and a Neti Pot. Some of it I keep. Some of it I set aside for her mom and sisters. A lot goes in the trash. I feel pulled between a desire to keep it all and to throw it all away.


She left behind her preferences for little things. At WinCo, I grab Fuji apples because those are the kind she likes. This is not sentimentality. It’s habit. Not until three months after she’s gone do I grab Granny Smiths, carefully selecting each green apple and feeling a sinking in my stomach as I do. Likewise, when I dress my two-year-old daughter Arya one morning, Danae’s good-humoured criticism of my outfit choices echoes, and I find myself deciding against a particular pair of leggings because “stripes and plaids don’t belong in the same ensemble.” I put on Buffy the Vampire Slayer one night when I can’t find something to watch — this was always her go-to when we couldn’t decide on something. But when the character Angel utters some ridiculously moody line, she’s not there to hear my teasing, to laugh and tell me, “I can’t help it Matt! I love this show!” So I turn it off, the fun gone. And it goes like this. I wipe up water from the bathroom floor after my shower because it bugs her. The Alfredo sauce remains off the pizzas I bring home from Papa Murphy’s because it makes her feel bloated. In the used bookstore, I automatically reach for a title from the Outlander series in case it’s one she hasn’t read. Fourteen years of a shared, intimate life leaves deep patterns, like old familiar ruts on a country road, and I’m not really sure how “to be” without her.



She left behind the walk-in closet. Like the bathroom, the closet was her domain for the most part, and is filled with hat boxes, small treasure chests, plastic organizing drawers, shoe racks, and a wrapping station. To me, a wrapping station was just one of those “female things” that served as a place from which to steal scissors and tape when the need arose (an action that seriously pissed her off). Now, when my four-year-old boy Finn is invited to a birthday party, I scour the wrapping station and find themed gift bags and colourful tissue paper. Thank you, Danae! And rather than leaving the scissors and tape out, I carefully put them away — I want them handy for the next time. I also find myself saving gift bags that are given to the kids, thinking, “Hey, I bet I could use it later.” In the past, I couldn’t chuck them into the recycling bin fast enough.



She left behind boxes of carefully-wrapped holiday decorations. It was always “clutter” in my mind, and if I was left in charge of putting it away, things got recklessly tossed into the garage (or even the trash if I could get away with it). This year, on January 5, I tenderly pull Christmas ornaments off the increasingly flammable tree, carefully wrapping each one in tissue paper and packing them away for next year. Some of the ornaments are new, gifts from friends and family at Danae’s memorial service, and some carry the energy of her loving stewardship. They are my responsibility now, and I will not treat them with the same careless disregard as the ghost of my Christmas past. While I perform this task, it occurs to me that I used to consider it a “task” as well, not realizing that having her by my side, listen- ing to music, chatting, and sharing in the holiday effort was the real Christmas gift.



She left behind her words in different forms like beautiful ghosts, ghosts who exact tears from me even when I believe my reservoir to be dry. In a stack of old letters, I find a homemade birthday card she made for me out of a map of Paris. She writes, “Happy Birthday Matt! Life with you is an adventure and I look forward to many, many more years of exploring. I love you! Yours, D.” Another night, I find the courage to open up my old Yahoo email account. There are close to a hundred emails from Danae spanning the first seven years of our marriage. The mes- sages range from everyday life details to love letters like this one she sent to me while I was commercial fishing in Alaska:

“My love, I miss you. I want to cuddle in your arms, kiss your sweet lips, hear your melodic voice in my ears. I want to talk about life and the thrills and woes that drop into my head and swim about at night. I want to roll over in the morning and put my arms around you and feel the warmth of your body heating me up...devouring me. Most of all, I want to see you, just look into your blue, daisy eyes, clasp your hand in mine and walk along the water...Roy running ahead and then turning to see if we are still heading in the same direction. You are my love for- ever and for always...enjoy the fish and tundra. Yours, Danae.”



She left behind her presence in home movies. Whereas her writ- ing is mystical and sentimental, the Danae caught on tape is usually laughing and telling stories that bubble over with valley- girl cheer. Arya likes one in particular and asks to see it regularly. It’s a video taken at a family vacation, a clip I filmed without Danae’s knowledge. She’s telling my mom about her and my dad’s experience killing time at a local karaoke bar. She’s wear- ing a funny tie-dyed shirt and her hair, streaked with summer reds, is long. Voice teetering on laughter, she says, “This guy is older, wearing glasses, and is — I don’t know — maybe sixty. And he gets up on the stage and is singing this song like, ‘I stroke it to the east, I stroke it to the west, I stroke it to the girl, I like the best,’ and he’s dancing all sexy, like doing all this kind of stuff.” At this point in the movie, Danae jumps up and starts gyrating her hips in imitation. “I mean it was sooo hard for us not to laugh! And after the guy finished, the dj’s like, ‘I don’t know about east and west, but I got north and south down!’” As Danae and my mom crack up on the video, Arya laughs loudly too, her eyes glued to the computer screen, her little mouth forming smiles. She doesn’t understand a thing from the video, but she likes seeing mommy, likes hearing mommy laugh. It tears my soul in half, but when she says, “again!” I start it over.



War journalist and filmmaker Sebastian Junger writes that for soldiers who have seen action, seen death, “It’s coming home that’s actually the trauma.” They return to a place that no longer exists, to a world that moves forward without them. I am not a soldier and have heard arguments against the war analogy for cancer. But, war seems to be the only fitting analogy for the violence cancer inflicted upon our lives. I have seen incredible suffering, shrieking in pain, puking blood, lying naked on the floor in shit and urine after she fell on the way to the bathroom. I have seen maggots crawl out of her nostril after feasting on rotting tissue, the humiliation and horror unbearable for her. I have watched dreams wither and fear spread like a virus. I have lived with the threat of death on a daily basis for prolonged periods of time. I watched the love of my life die on a hospital bed, blood trickling out of her eyes, her swollen, unmoving hand lifeless in mine. And, like some soldiers, I know what it means to find that home no longer exists, at least not in the way it did.



So, the kids and I rebuild, salvaging what we can and scavenging the rest. And some days I see that she’s left behind immense love and two thriving children. Other days, I see that she’s left behind a deeply wounded man with one foot in this life and one forever on the other side.

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